Specter of the Past

by Timothy Zahn

  “Of course we did,” Hestiv said, his tone a little huffy. “Everything from the basic maintenance files on up to—”

  “No,” Pellaeon said, staring at the display as a sudden chilling thought hit him. “You didn’t check everything. You couldn’t have.”

  “Begging the Admiral’s pardon—”

  “Because there are records you don’t have access to,” Pellaeon cut him off, scrolling down the listing. “Specifically, the Special Files section.”

  Hestiv’s eyebrows lifted. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “Are you suggesting a lowly major could access the Emperor’s own sealed records?”

  “I agree it sounds unbelievable,” Pellaeon said. “But we’re running out of options.”

  “But a major?”

  “He’s an aide to a very slippery Moff,” Pellaeon reminded him. “I wouldn’t put it past Disra to have found a way into the Special Files. In fact, considering his ambition and lack of discernible ethics, I’d probably find it more surprising if he hadn’t.”

  “I still don’t believe it,” Hestiv said heavily. “But as you say, we’re running out of options.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you can get us into those records to check this out?”

  Pellaeon shook his head. “The codes and procedures were lost long before I rose to the position where I would have been instructed in their use.”

  “Pity,” Hestiv said. “If we can’t get in, we aren’t going to be able to figure out what he was doing in there.”

  “That is the big question, isn’t it?” Pellaeon agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “He couldn’t have been looking up something—the records at Bastion are duplicates of the ones here. Which implies his purpose was to add, delete, or alter.”

  Hestiv muttered something under his breath. “Which implies those names you’re investigating may have more of a history with the Empire than you thought.”

  “Perhaps,” Pellaeon agreed soberly as another unpleasant thought struck him. “But there’s one other possibility. If I wanted details on the attack that destroyed Caamas, where would I look?”

  Hestiv shrugged slightly. “There should be copies of all the media and official reports in the regular files, both current-time and follow-up.”

  “And if Palpatine was personally involved, as the rumors suggested?”

  Hestiv exhaled noisily. “Anything like that would be in the Special Files section, wouldn’t it? You think that’s what Tierce was really after?”

  “Or he was after that plus Disra’s ally list,” Pellaeon said. “As long as he was in the files anyway, why not do both?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Hestiv said, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the desktop. “The question is, what would Disra want with the Caamas files?”

  “Whatever it is, I doubt very much that it has anything other than Disra’s personal aggrandizement at the core,” Pellaeon said sourly. “And for that reason alone, I want to know what it is. I think, General, that the two of us ought to begin a quiet search for someone who might be able to access those records for us.”

  “I’ll begin making inquiries immediately,” Hestiv promised. “Where can I contact you if I’m successful?”

  “I’ll be out of contact for a while,” Pellaeon said, standing up. “I’ll communicate with you when I get back. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Anytime, Admiral,” Hestiv said. “And best of luck with … with everything.”

  And it was finally time, Pellaeon knew as he headed down the corridor from Hestiv’s office toward the docking bay where his shuttle was berthed. The Yaga Minor shipyards were the last stop on his tour of the Empire’s meager defensive facilities, and he had gleaned as much support from the senior military as he was going to get.

  It was time now for the lonely journey to Pesitiin.

  He grimaced. It had been three weeks now. Three weeks since Major Vermel would have arrived at Morishim to try to contact General Bel Iblis. Three weeks since he and his Corellian Corvette had vanished without a single trace. The increasingly unavoidable conclusion was that he’d been intercepted somewhere along the way, either by random pirates, overeager New Republic forces, or dissident Imperials.

  He’d been a good officer, even a friend, and Pellaeon would mourn his loss and miss his service. But at the moment the critical question was whether he’d been able to deliver his message before that interception occurred.

  There was no way for Pellaeon to know. He would simply have to show up at Pesitiin and see if Bel Iblis did likewise.

  And if the other did not … well, he would deal with that when and if it became necessary.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Its official name was the Grand Rim Promenade; and even on a world that prided itself on engineering achievements as much as Cejansij clearly did, it was a remarkable achievement indeed. Thirty meters wide at its greatest expanse, attached to the eastern wall of the Canyonade about two-thirds of the way from floor to rim, it stretched the entire length—over ten kilometers—of the canyon. Small trade and vending booths were set up all along the canyon wall, the commercial areas interspersed with conversation circles or tiny contoured meditation gardens or sculpture clusters. At other spots the wall had been left completely open to allow unobstructed observation of interesting natural vegetation clumps or the small waterfalls that dribbled softly down toward the canyon floor below.

  The far more interesting view, though, was on the other side of the Promenade. Beyond the chest-high, elaborately tooled metal-mesh guardwall one could look down into the Canyonade itself, to the city that had been created across the floor and sides. At regular intervals the guardwall opened up into the skyarches that curved gracefully across the canyon to the lesser and more utilitarian walkways on the far side. The skyarches were arranged in diamond-patterned groups of nine: three connecting with the Promenade, two each connecting with the walkways above and below it, one each from the walkways above and below those.

  An impressive achievement, made all the more so by the fact that the entire three-hundred-year-old structure was held solidly in place without any repulsorlift support whatsoever. Walking along the Promenade, gazing across through the gathering darkness at the scattering of lights across the canyon and down below, Luke wondered if anyone in these modern days would have both the skill and the self-confidence to undertake anything of this magnitude.

  Rolling along at Luke’s side, Artoo twittered uneasily. “Don’t worry, Artoo, I’m not going to get too close to the edge,” Luke soothed the little droid, shifting his shoulders beneath his hooded cloak. “Anyway, it’s not dangerous—the brochure said there are emergency tractor beams set up to catch anyone who falls.”

  Artoo warbled a not entirely convinced acknowledgment. Then, rotating his dome for a surreptitious look behind them, he beeped a question. “Yes,” Luke told him soberly. “He’s still following us.”

  Had been following them, in fact, since shortly after their arrival on the Promenade: a large bulky alien, slipping in and out of the other pedestrians with unlikely grace. Luke wasn’t sure exactly when he and Artoo had been spotted and identified; possibly during the turbolift ride down from the spaceport, possibly not until they’d arrived on the Promenade itself.

  For that matter, it was entirely possible they hadn’t been identified at all. Their tail could simply be a local thief hoping to relieve a helpless stranger of his astromech droid.

  If so, he was going to be in for a surprise.

  Artoo twittered again. “Patience,” Luke told him, looking around. They had come to the end of one of the groups of wall-hugging businesses now and were starting into a wide area that featured only a waterfall and two currently unoccupied conversation areas. Quiet, peaceful, and as private as Luke had yet seen up here. An ideal place for holding an impromptu conversation.

  Or for springing an ambush.

  “Let’s pause here a moment,” he said to Artoo, crossing over toward the outer edge of th
e Promenade. They were roughly in the middle of the quiet area now, with the waterfall rippling softly behind them. Picking a section of guardwall, Luke stopped walking and leaned his elbows on the top rail, stretching out to the Force as he did so. There was a subtle change in the emotions of their pursuer now: a change that felt to Luke like the other had made a decision. “He’s coming,” Luke muttered to Artoo. “I think he’s alone, but there could still be trouble. Keep back out of the way, all right?”

  The droid acknowledged with a nervous twitter, rolling a meter back in response. Resettling his elbows on the guardwall, Luke gazed out into the Canyonade, a gentle shiver running up his back as he listened to the quiet footsteps approaching from the side. As near as he could tell, this was the exact spot where he’d seen himself in that vision …

  The footsteps stopped. “Pardon me,” a gentle voice asked. “Are you the Jedi Master Luke Skywalker?”

  Luke turned, getting his first clear look at the being who’d been following them. He was of an unfamiliar species: tall and broad, with dark shell plates half-hidden beneath a fur-trimmed cloak. His head was large, with alert black eyes and small spikes where the mouth would be on a human. “I’m Skywalker, yes,” Luke confirmed. “And you?”

  “I am Moshene Tre,” the alien said. “Un’Yala of the Cas’ta tribe of the Rellarin people of Rellnas Minor.”

  He reached a Wookiee-sized hand to the collar of his cloak and turned the edge back. Fastened on the underside was a distinctive gold-filigree pin. “I am also a New Republic Observer. I am honored to meet you, sir.”

  “And I you,” Luke said, nodding in greeting as his last vestiges of tension faded away. The Observers were an experimental, quasi-official part of the New Republic, created in this latest round of governmental policy reorganization. Moving freely about their assigned sectors, their job was to report directly to the High Council and Senate whatever they saw or heard, with a particular eye toward improper governmental activities that the local or sector authorities might prefer to keep out of sight.

  There had been some early fears that the Observers might evolve into the kind of secret security forces that the Empire had used with such devastating effect during its reign of terror. So far, though, that didn’t seem to be happening. The various governments that had undertaken to sponsor Observers had chosen their candidates carefully, with an eye toward hiring only strongly ethical beings and then strictly defining the limits of their mandate. The fact that the Observers were assigned to sectors far away from their homes and any local or species rivalries undoubtedly helped encourage their sponsors to pick candidates who were as incorruptible and impartial as possible.

  A similar system had been used in the Old Republic, Luke knew, with the Jedi Knights acting in the Observers’ role. Perhaps someday his academy graduates would be numerous enough—and trusted enough—to once again take on that duty. “What may I do to help you?” he asked.

  “Please forgive my impertinence in walking within your shadow,” Tre continued. “But I felt a burden to speak with you, and needed to be certain of your identity before I approached.”

  “I understand,” Luke said. “No harm done. How may I help you?”

  The Rellarin stepped up to the guardwall beside Luke and waved a massive hand downward. “I wished you to see what is happening in the Canyonade tonight. To see, and to understand.”

  Luke turned back to the guardwall and looked down. All he could see were the normal street and vehicle lights of a modern city. “Where am I supposed to be looking?” he asked.

  “There,” Tre said, pointing toward a large diamond-shaped area near the center of the Canyonade directly across from where the two of them stood. Though bordered by normal street illumination, the area itself was almost completely dark, with only a handful of tiny lights showing near the center.

  “It looks like a park,” Luke hazarded, mentally calling up the map of the Canyonade he’d looked at on the way into the spaceport. “Tranquillity Common, perhaps?”

  “That is correct,” Tre said. “Do you see the lights in the center?”

  “Yes,” Luke said. “They’re …”

  He paused, frowning. In the past few seconds, as he and Tre had been speaking, the number of lights had seemingly doubled. Still grouped closely together … and then, even as he watched, a new circle of lights was added to the group.

  “They are lights of peace,” Tre said. “Tonight, the peoples of Cejansij gather together in support of justice.”

  “Yes,” Luke said. He could see all too well where this one was going. “Justice.”

  “I perceive from your tone of voice that you do not yet understand,” Tre said, his own tone one of mild reproof. “The High Council and Senate dismiss all such demonstrations as riots by the violent or ignorant, or else as plots by the Empire. But such is not always the case.”

  “I don’t think the Senate sees things quite that simplistically,” Luke said. Still, he had to admit that Tre had a point. “So what third category would the demonstration down there fall into?”

  “As I said: the support of justice,” the Rellarin said. “The white lights you see are in remembrance of the peoples of Caamas. Soon now—yes; there. Do you see?”

  Luke nodded. Around the group of white lights, a thin circle of blue lights had appeared. As he watched, more were added, creating an ever-growing ring of blue around the white. “I see them.”

  “They signify remembrance for the victims of the Vrassh Slaughter,” Tre told him. “The land the perpetrators gained by that act has yielded great wealth to them; yet neither the Pas’sic government nor the New Republic has insisted that any of that wealth be given to the survivors’ families, as both the custom and ancient law of that world demand.”

  “One of my Jedi students was of the Vrassh,” Luke said, his heart stirring at the memory. “He had a great deal of anger to work through before his training could properly begin.”

  “Their rage is understandable,” Tre said. “Yet there is no such anger in those gathered below.” He gestured again toward the growing circle of lights. “Not in the way humans define anger. They are quiet and peaceful, threatening no one. But they will not forget those who were wronged, nor will they allow those in power to forget.”

  “Yes,” Luke murmured. “There are indeed some things that must never be forgotten.”

  For a few minutes they stood in silence and watched. The circle of blue lights continued to grow; and then, as the white center had given way to blue, the blue gave way to yellow. The yellow was joined and encircled in turn by red, then by pale green, then violet, and finally an outer ring of white. “They are all gathered,” Tre said when the series of concentric rings was complete. “Those are the ones who have tonight donated their time in remembrance. Others will donate their time other nights; and as all look down upon the lights they too will remember. And all of Cejansij will strengthen in their resolve to petition the seats of power until all such wrongs are righted.”

  Luke shook his head. “Except that none of these wrongs can be righted, un’Yala Tre,” he said. “Not Caamas, not any of them.”

  “The Cejansiji understand that,” the Rellarin said. “They know the dead cannot be brought back to life, nor devastated worlds be made whole again. They merely seek such justice as is within the power of mortal beings to grant.”

  “And what justice would they seek for Caamas?” Luke persisted. “The punishment of the entire Bothan race for the crimes of a few?”

  “Many would say that such would not be true justice,” Tre agreed. “But others would not share that opinion, and their voices too must be heard.” He pointed to the circles of lights. “But now see. They demonstrate that justice cannot be limited to any one people or event. Justice must exist for all.”

  Luke frowned. The neat circles were breaking up, the different colors starting to mix together at the edges. His first thought was that the demonstration had ended and the participants were starting to leave. But the
overall group of lights didn’t seem to be getting any larger. The colors continued to bleed together, the rings giving way to a more homogeneous mix of color—

  And suddenly he understood. The participants were leaving their own circles of remembrance and interweaving with the people in the other circles. It was a quiet yet deeply moving demonstration of unity.

  “Some of those now in the Common do indeed believe that the entire Bothan species should be held accountable for the crime of Caamas,” Tre said quietly. “At least in regard to reparations to the surviving Caamasi. Other Cejansiji reject that argument, yet agree that in suppressing knowledge of their part in the crime the Bothan leadership has forfeited any right to claims of innocence. There will also be visiting offworlders in the Common, holding lights alongside them, whose opinions will be equally varied.”

  “Sounds like it’s about the same here as everywhere else in the galaxy,” Luke said.

  “True,” Tre said. “The point I wished to make, Master Skywalker, is that these differences are not the result of enemy plots or even posturings among political rivals. They are the genuine and honest differences of opinion among the many beings who make up the New Republic. To dismiss any of them as unimportant or unthinking is to insult the honor and integrity of those beings and their cultures.”

  “I know,” Luke said. “I’m sure the Senate does, too. The problem is how to reconcile all those differences. Not just over Caamas, but also in a thousand other matters.”

  “I do not know how you will succeed,” Tre said. “I only know that it must be done, and that it must be done quickly. Already I have heard the stirrings of genuine anger at the Senate’s inaction on this matter. There are other even more disturbing stirrings: whispered suggestions that the New Republic no longer cares what any world does against its neighbors or adversaries. Even now some are preparing to settle old grievances, while others seek new alliances for protection.”

  Luke sighed. “I’ve lost track of how many times the New Republic government has been accused of being too heavy-handed in one crisis or another over the past few years. Now they’re trying to let the sectors and systems do more of their own governing; so of course they’re being accused of doing nothing.”